


Just For the Hell of It

by Celly1995



Series: the kazer dick cake fic of shame and glory [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Baker Patrick, Bakery, Cake, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hockey Player Jonny, Idiots in Love, M/M, Patrick Kane is not a Pro Hockey Player, Smut, You Can Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6760360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celly1995/pseuds/Celly1995
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handful of scenes from Patrick's point of view. A sequel/accompaniment to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6725803">"Is It Sweet?"</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Just For the Hell of It

**Author's Note:**

> There were originally three scenes planned to be around 500 to 1000 words each, as a sort of coda to the original crack fic. That somehow grew into four longer scenes and an epilogue, all on its own. It also grew from fluff to fluff, feels, and a lot of smut. Hope no one minds too much. Much thanks again to my marvelous beta, and to the two friends who headcanoned at me about my own fic universe, leading to a couple of these scenes in particular.
> 
> Each scene is tagged with a location and general date to place it within the timeline of the original fic. Though it can be read alone, it makes a HELL of a lot more sense if you've read the original fic, first. There's some very slight fudging of dates, for the sake of continuity and general logistics. Obviously, as this is an AU where Patrick (and another player) is not in the NHL, and other former members are still with the team, this hockey schedule/timeline doesn't follow any particular season. 
> 
> Title again taken from The Fratellis' "Chelsea Dagger," and basically sums up the existence of this fic :)

** Chicago; mid-January **

Patrick rolls over on the bed, stretching and feeling the sweet soreness of exertion and good, vigorous sex, only to find the other half of the bed empty.

He cracks open an eye. He can see the blue numbers of the hotel room's alarm clock, informing him it's not yet five in the morning. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and looks around. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, the light inside the bathroom off. There's just his stuff on the dresser, his clothes on the floor. No sign of the guy he'd come back with. And no note or number.

Not that he'd actually expected one.

He almost feels bad about it, but won't let himself. Even if Patrick had been just some random one-night stand, that was _Jonathan fucking Toews_. The goddamn captain for the Chicago Blackhawks. He'd been fucked—really, thoroughly, good and fucked, in ways Patrick had only dreamt of—by one of the best in the NHL.

It's not all that bad for the ego.

He hadn't even gone out meaning to pick up. He'd just been tired of staring at his hotel room walls, and wanting a beer and some social interaction with someone other than asshole landlords and property management company representatives. He'd found a bar, gone in, and been pleased enough to find one of the giant TVs was tuned to a hockey game. It wasn't the Sabres or even the Blackhawks, but that was all right. He could still watch the Kings and the Coyotes. Better than nothing on a Thursday night.

He'd seen the guy across the bar sometime around halfway into the first and thought he was imagining shit. Yeah, he was in Chicago, but there was no way. Still, he was hot, and Patrick kept catching him looking. He even heard the guy laugh when Patrick yelled at the Kings to suck it after Arizona's second unanswered goal, which meant he was definitely paying attention. So Patrick made sure to catch his eye and smile. Nothing too obvious, just friendly. He'd still just been thinking he'd found a random lookalike, right up until the moment the guy stood up, bumped into someone, and bent over to snag the girl's dropped phone.

No one else could possibly have an ass like that.

(Well, okay, maybe Sidney Crosby, but Patrick would argue Toews's ass was at least tied, if there were rankings. Crosby had size, but Toews had sheer power.) 

By the end of the first intermission, Toews had settled at Patrick's left side, watching the game with him. By the end of the second period, he'd bought the next round and was giving Patrick shit for being a Sabres fan. Just before the third, Patrick caught him looking—staring, really—with those intense eyes of his, just sort of locked on to the way Patrick was flailing his hands around during his rant about the Kings and their enforcers. He'd stopped in the middle of what he was saying, unable to help the grin on his face when he noticed Jonny—he was Jonny now, by introduction, though he'd never given Patrick a last name—took a couple of seconds to catch up, still staring in a way that gave away a whole lot of information. Namely, that this night had a _definite_ chance of improving even further. 

Jonny hadn't even paid attention to the rest of the game. They'd kept up the conversation, effortless and amusing, but Patrick felt Jonny's eyes on him the entire time.

They'd left together a few minutes before the end of regulation, and the Coyotes were down, but Patrick didn't give a rat's ass about the score by that point. The bite of the late January wind was sharp, but Patrick didn't care about that, either. What he cared about was the easy laugh of the guy walking next to him, the smile stretched across his face, pulling at the scar on his upper lip, and the heat in his eyes when they caught each other's gaze.

And goddamn, the years of athletic conditioning had paid off in Jonny's bedroom game, too. 

They'd made out for a while, Jonny pressing Patrick up against the wall just inside the hotel room door, and things just sort of progressed from there, never anything awkward about the pace. Just one moment, Jonny had one of Patrick's wrists pinned to the wall by his head, and then the next, there was another hand undoing the button and fly of Patrick's jeans to be able to wrap around his hard-on like it belonged there.

"Have you been tested recently?" Jonny'd asked after their shirts and Patrick's pants had disappeared, and Patrick was starting to doubt his hold on reality, that he was here, in his hotel room, with this guy, who wanted to know about his sexual health. This was definitely the best business trip of his life.

"Yeah. All clean." He'd been tested eight months ago, but he hadn't been with anyone since then, and Patrick thanked God for the dry spell that allowed him to give that answer. "You?"

"Yeah." And without further preamble, Jonny'd dropped to his knees and Patrick worried about coming before things really got anywhere. Jonny was still wearing jeans, for God's sake. Patrick couldn't blow his load _yet_.

Jonny sucked him off for a while, until Patrick had mustered enough brain power to tell him that he'd better stop, if he didn't want things to be over too quickly. Jonny had pulled back, swollen lips quirked in something like a smirk. "Why, you got places to be after this?"

"Not till O'Hare at six-thirty," Patrick had said. "But I really want to at least get your goddamn pants off and my hands on that ass of yours." 

Jonny had laughed. More importantly, he had obliged, standing up to get naked and giving Patrick some time to come down a bit. They'd tumbled to the bed, and Patrick got his first good look at Jonny's dick. It was just as gorgeous as the rest of him. He let Patrick crawl on top of him, murmured encouragement when Patrick slid down the bed to get his own mouth on Jonny. He'd started out returning the favor Jonny had given, and the next thing he really knew, Jonny had tugged him up for a bruising kiss before murmuring "can I fuck you?"

Patrick was pretty sure there had never been a more enthusiastic nod given in the history of the world.

Lube and a condom had been retrieved from Patrick's luggage at some point, and Patrick was absolutely looking forward to using them, but he'd had other things in mind. "I know I said you could fuck me," he said, squirming underneath Jonny as Jonny sucked kisses into his skin and grazed his teeth against Patrick's abs, "but how do you feel about letting me do a little something for you, first?"

Jonny's eyes had flashed in a way that made Patrick shiver, but he'd nodded, and Patrick had grinned. Because this—this was an opportunity he had to seize.

When Patrick's life is tallied up, after it's all over and he's dead and gone, at the very top of the list of all his achievements will be one thing: _Rimmed Jonathan Toews's Glorious Ass_. Patrick will keep Jonny's gasped "fuck, Jesus, _Kaner_ ," as his tongue pressed into Jonny's hole and the grunt and the subsequent groan as he'd come inside Patrick ten minutes later with him for the rest of his goddamned _life._

So. Yeah. Even if he hasn't gotten a number, a note, or even a final goodbye before Jonny had slipped out during the early morning hours, Patrick still puts the whole experience firmly in the win column. 

He thinks he might even have to buy a Blackhawks jersey, after this.

* * *

**  
**  
Buffalo; early February   


 

Patrick knows from the wide, puppy dog eyes on his sister's face as she approaches that she needs a favor. He swallows the last bite of his lunch and sighs. It almost always means extra work or dealing with an unpleasant customer when she gives him that look while they're in the bakery. "What do you want?"

Erica doesn't even pretend to have no idea what Patrick means. They've been through this routine too many times in their lives. "It's really not that bad," she says, holding out one of their order forms for him to take. "It's just a cake I need you to decorate."

He raises his eyebrows, not wanting to accept the sheet of paper in case that automatically means he accepts the assignment. "Why not ask Jess? You know she's been wanting to do more of that stuff, and I'm booked for almost the next two weeks, for Valentine's and shit."

"One, this isn't for Valentine's week, Patty. It's for next week. Second, this is kind of above Jess's ability level."

Patrick snorts. "Don't let her hear you say that." He pauses. His middle sister may not be ready for some Food Network competition just yet, but she's definitely a pretty competent cake decorator, and she's improving all the time. Once she gets the hang of working with fondant on larger surfaces, she'll be pretty damned good, actually. She can already do the modeling chocolate and marzipan cupcake toppers like a pro. So if this is supposedly so far beyond Jess's scope, it's got to be something kind of exceptional. "Is it big?"

One corner of Erica's mouth turns up in a smirk. "Yeah. But that's not the whole of it."

"So then what is it?"

"It's kind of outside our usual style," Erica says, holding out the order form again. "Take a look."

Patrick gives in and takes the sheet of paper, scanning it. It definitely is a larger cake, intended to feed forty to fifty people. And it's a 3D cake, which makes it considerably more challenging. He scans through the rest of the details—fondant instead of pure buttercream, airbrushing okay, no allergies working against them—and sees what Erica's getting at. In the "special instructions" field, the note says "Realistic. REALLY realistic."

He looks up at the eldest of his little sisters. "So, when they say 'really realistic'...?"

Erica nods. "Like, if you had that machine from _Willy Wonka_ , and blew something up to a whole lot of times its normal size, like that chocolate bar...yeah. Like that. Only with a dick instead of a chocolate bar. Think, like, I don't know, a prosthetic for a giant. A really erotic prop from _Honey, I Shrunk the Kids_. A piece of some large marble statue. Whatever. But that's what I mean, here. They want it to look like an actual dick, only a lot bigger. They want the whole thing—proportionate, realistic colors, texture details, the whole shebang." She looks at him for a moment. "Think you can pull it off?"

The thing is, he does. Normally he'd fight her on this, at least make sure they were charging a significant labor upcharge for something that's guaranteed to take him at least an extra hour, and quite possibly more. He's already thinking about just how to pull off this sort of request, which materials to use and all—maybe spun sugar for the pubic hair?—as if he's already taken the deposit. "Yeah. I can do it."

"Great." Erica leans in and kisses his cheek. "You know, you're a hell of a lot less cranky since you got back from Chicago. You _sure_ you don't want to give me some juicy details about what you got up to out there? Because this isn't just the sort of good mood that comes from finding a place to lease for your bakery. This is like...like you got laid, but really well. Like, lingerie-model laid. Or soulmate laid, if that shit existed. Or you fucking fell in love or something." 

Patrick can feel himself blush, and he knows Erica sees it from the way her eyes widen. "Oh my God, you went and fell for someone didn't you? Goddamn it, Patty, spill it. I want to hear everything. I need to know who to send good thoughts to for turning my stressed out big brother into a bearable person again for the last week and a half. Tell me all about her. Him. Them. What the fuck ever, just spill."

Patrick shakes his head. "It's no one."

"Fucking bullshit, big brother. Come on. Are they hot? Were they romantic? Seriously, come on."

"Just drop it," he mutters, signing the order form for her, under the place for assigned baker/decorator. "He's way the fuck out of my league, okay?"

Erica practically bores holes into him with her eyes. "Yeah. Sure. Okay. Dropping it," she says after a moment, snatching the paper back. She heads back out towards the front of house, then pauses. "And Patty? Regarding this cake, I just have one additional request."

"What?"

"Don't fucking do it in the image of your own dick. And if you do, don't fucking tell me that's what you did. Your sisters have to look at this thing, too, for fuck's sake."

"I won't," he huffs, rolling his eyes as she finally leaves him in peace.

Actually, he's got another dick in mind as inspiration. One that's fucking gorgeous, and deserving of such a large tribute as being immortalized, even if it is only in sugar and cake. He pulls out his sketch pad from its spot on the shelves. Yeah, he knows just the one, can see the shade of it, the uncut shape, even the small freckle he'd run his tongue over.

As far as dick cakes go, this _might_ just be his masterpiece.

* * *

**  
**  
Buffalo; very early April  


 

It's bittersweet stepping onto the ice tonight, and Patrick feels the weight of it as he glides out, putting one skate in front of the other. There's the thrill that's always there, especially when he feels good, warmed up and confident and in the zone, but just underneath it all, there's that knowledge that this will be the last time he does this. It might not be his last night on the ice ever—he's definitely going to look into rec leagues in the Chicago area, before next season starts—but it'll be his last game playing here, with these guys, as a part of this team. He won't be with them when they make the playoffs (and they will; they've been fucking _killing_ it all season), he won't be around for the parties, for the dinners, for the awards ceremony shit. He'll be in Chicago, working his ass off to get the new place ready for opening, trying to find bakers and cashiers and cake decorators and building that sort of team up from the bottom. 

He shakes his head to clear it as he falls into line with everyone else, doing the traditional two laps around their half of the ice for warmups before starting drills and stretches that are so ingrained. He looks up into the stands out of habit, picks out his parents and two of his sisters—Erica and Jackie—out of the crowd, right where they normally sit when they come to watch him play. Usually, it's just a couple of them at a time, or all of them if it's an important game or any of the playoff ones, but tonight they've all come out. He figures Jess is around somewhere. She's never late, when she shows up, and she'd promised to come tonight.

He completely misses a shot against Ellwood, going wide of the net when it should have gone in or been at least deflected by the goalie as his turn in line comes a few minutes later, and he almost even runs into Bacarin. He'd looked up at the wrong time, something he never fucking does, and thought he'd seen something—someone. He swears at himself under his breath. There's no way that had been Jonny up in the stands. It's purely wishful thinking, and Patrick's trying not to do that too much, especially not tonight. 

"Be better," he mutters to himself, circling back around, and smirks just a little. Jonny's getting to him, maybe. 

It's a close game, and Patrick's first line, so he gets plenty of ice time. By the time the third rolls around, he's pretty tired, but there's enough adrenaline and endorphins to keep him going. When he nets his second goal of the night, the fucking go-ahead goal, with less than forty-five seconds in regulation, he doesn't keep the vicious sort of enthusiasm and pride out of his celly. It's good, the right way to go out if he's gotta go out at all, and he doesn't think the extra exuberance of his teammates as they share in congratulating him after is all in his head. Gally—Gallegos, the captain who'd picked him as his A three seasons ago and never looked back—even kisses him on the cheek before he skates away. 

He leaves the ice grinning, waving at the crowd at large, the people from all around the community that show up just to watch a bunch of guys—teachers, lawyers, salesmen, waiters, bakers, even more random professions than that—play basically for fun and bragging rights. They're a motley bunch, in it for the love of the game, and Patrick's going to really miss these guys.

He takes his time getting out of there after the game. Half the guys have promised a round of drinks already, and Patrick's only given a vague sort of excuse about having other plans for the evening. In all honesty, the game had been draining, and not just for all the ice time and hits, but the emotional shit that's sort of catching up to him in the aftermath, now that it's really sinking in that he won't be doing this anymore. He thinks it might be a better idea to just do dinner with his family, since they've all come out to see his last game, and then turn in for the night. Besides, there's a farewell party planned for tomorrow night, just before he leaves for Chicago two mornings later, and he'll see everyone then. And everyone's chill enough with that, doesn't give him shit, which Patrick's actually pretty grateful for.

His family's waiting around outside the locker room when he finally emerges, all his gear shoved into his bags and hefted onto his shoulder. His hair's still damp from the showers, but no one seems to mind, rushing up to him and yelling congratulations in the empty halls as they hug and jostle him. "You're later than we expected," his mother says, looking at him in a way he thinks means she might know how wiped he really is. "Not going out with your teammates this time?"

Patrick shrugs. "Thought maybe we could all go out to dinner or something kinda chill. I'll see them all tomorrow night, you know?"

"You're sure you don't want a night out with your friends?" Jess says, and Patrick shakes his head. He knew she'd be here, even if he hadn't seen her with everyone else earlier. "Pretty sure none of us would mind if you wanted to do something other than hang out with us."

He opens his mouth to reiterate his desire to do something more low-key than go out and drink with a bunch of pumped-up guys, but closes it when Erica clears her throat, catches his eyes, and then turns her gaze to somewhere over his shoulder. He blinks, noticing that now _everyone_ is staring at that point past him, back closer to the locker room entrance, and turns around to see what's so important.

Jonny's standing there, leaning up against the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he's striving extra hard for casual. As soon as Patrick sees him, Jonny sort of grins crookedly. "Hey," is all he says, and Patrick just blinks for a second, all his gear sliding off his shoulder and out of his hands and hitting the floor, because this can't be fucking real, can it?

Someone—no idea who, but he'd guess either Erica or his mother, just because of proximity—shoves him from behind, and that's what it takes to get him to take those few steps towards where Jonny seems to be standing, like he's actually there, has actually come, for some reason Patrick can't quite figure out and is afraid to ask. He's standing there in front of Jonny, who's still got that same crooked grin on his face, that sort of amused half-smile, and it takes a stupid amount of courage to reach his hand up and wrap his fingers in the fabric of Jonny's sweater and prove that he's real and not some amazingly clear hallucination. 

"Holy shit," he breathes, and Jonny's smile widens. 

"You were amazing out there," Jonny murmurs, one hand sliding around Patrick's waist and resting on the small of his back, gently pulling him in closer so he can tilt his head down and kiss Patrick, just a light brush of their mouths together.

"You fucking _came to my game_ ," Patrick says, blinking some more. His eyes fucking sting. Jonny's here, despite his ridiculous schedule, despite having actual, important shit to be thinking about, especially now that he and the guys managed to clinch a playoff spot just last night. "What the hell, are you serious?" 

"I'm Captain Serious, didn't you know?" Jonny smirks, and Patrick laughs through the tears that fall, completely out of his control. He knows Jonny's not really a fan of the nickname, which sort of makes it funnier. Jonny reaches up his other hand, runs a thumb gently under Patrick's left eye to wipe the moisture away. "Surprised?"

"Fuck yeah, I'm surprised!" Patrick laughs again, feeling giddy and overall emotional in a way that would be embarrassing if anyone from his team was still around. He looks back over his shoulder, but the hall is now entirely empty. His family and his gear are gone, and he catches the sight of everyone walking in the parking lot, his gear bag in his dad's hand and his stick in Erica's, lit by the street lights out there. 

Jonny catches him looking. "Good. I was kind of surprised you didn't catch on." He nods out towards Patrick's family. "We've been trying to get logistics figured out for two weeks."

"They all knew?" Patrick would feel betrayed, if he didn't feel so fucking grateful instead. 

"Well, Erica knew that long. Your other sisters and your parents have been in on it for a week, though. Ever since it looked like we could really make this happen."

"But _why_?" Patrick manages, head reeling over what sort of ridiculous shit they'd had to have done to keep not only Jonny's trip to Buffalo a secret, but also to get him into the arena without being mobbed, let alone anywhere near the locker room after the game without raising suspicion or catching the attention of any of his teammates, who would absolutely recognize one of the top players in the NHL just randomly showing up to one of their games.

Jonny shrugs with one shoulder. "It was your last game. I know it was important to you and that you love this. Plus, I really wanted to see you play. I've heard your sisters talk about you playing more than I've heard _you_ talk about you playing."

"It's kind of embarrassing, talking about playing in a rec league with someone who actually gets paid to play for a living," Patrick mutters, feeling his face go a little pink.

"It shouldn't be," Jonny says, matter-of-fact, like that's true. "I like learning about you. And you _were_ amazing out there, Kaner. There are guys in the AHL who don't have that kind of puck-handling skill. Hell, even in the NHL."

He feels his chest swell a little bit at that, knowing it's not just Jonny saying it as his boyfriend, but as a pro athlete. Jonny's got the whole serious label and all, but Patrick can usually tell when he's being genuine and when he's being polite and when he's just being a smartass—which is more often than most people would ever guess—and that was an actual, genuine compliment, another of those things Jonny considers a fact of the universe, and not just some bit of flattery. He tries to say thanks, but nothing comes out. So instead he just presses closer, kisses Jonny long and deep, hoping that Jonny gets just how thankful he is to have him here, how amazing it is to be able to have him share this moment, because he _gets_ how important hockey can be, and because he _wants_ to share this sort of thing with Patrick.

When they break the kiss off several moments later, Jonny leans back against the bricks again and grins down at him. His eyes are warm and Patrick would make fun of him for how _openly fond_ the expression is, except he knows he's got to be just as fucking bad. 

And really, he's okay with that.

* * *

**  
**  
Chicago; late June  


 

Patrick's really not sure if it's late or early—not that it fucking matters—when he hears the back door open and someone step inside. There are only a couple of other people with a key to the back door of his new bakery, and none of them really have a reason to be here at the moment, although Patrick doesn't think he actually locked it after all, at any point after his staff left yesterday. After a couple of seconds, a head pops into view around the corner where Patrick's sitting in his tiny little office, going through the chain of emails to a local printer, checking for the hundredth time that the final version of the business cards and flyers and info sheets and stickers that he approved the other day are still okay and haven't magically sprouted any typos or other inaccuracies. 

It's his head baker, and Patrick tries not to wince. Definitely early, then. He should have stopped hours ago to sleep. He offers up a "good morning," and a little wave, trying to smile when the guy offers up a wave of his own and a thickly-accented "hello." Artemi Panarin was his first hire in this whole process, and Patrick had taken a gamble there. There was a language barrier, that was for damned sure, but the kid knew his way around the kitchen, and they'd somehow managed to understand each other enough to make it through not only the interview, but also the stage. Patrick counted himself lucky that he'd had a couple of years playing with a guy from Russia in the rec league back home. And the kid's English was improving by leaps and bounds, every fucking day, which was awesome.

"Things good?" Panarin asks a couple of minutes later, ducking back in now that he's got his chef's coat and apron on. He raises his eyebrows in a way that says he's actually asking if there's anything wrong, anything he needs to be informed about.

"Yeah," Patrick assures him. "Just a late night. We're good. There's a list on your station. It's small, but I can find more for you to do when you're done, if you want. Or you can just call it a short day and make sure you're ready for tomorrow and the next day."

Panarin gives him another nod to let him know he's got it and heads for the kitchen. They don't officially open until Friday morning, two days from now, but Patrick wants them to do a soft open tomorrow, see if they can't lure in a few people from the streets and some of the surrounding office buildings and get a little bit of word of mouth going. It'll be limited menu for that, obviously, and he's going to have to just roll with the production lists for the next several weeks, until he can figure out a steady par level. He wants to have plenty of product, yeah, but he also doesn't want to be writing off a ton of stuff because they've over-produced for the few customers they're likely to have for a while. Today all he really needs done in the kitchen is a couple batches of cookie dough, a batch of royal icing mixed up and ready to be dyed, and a few more cake batters made, ready to either bake and freeze tonight, or just put away in the walk-in, ready to be scooped and baked tomorrow. 

Why did he ever think this was a good idea? They had shit dialed in at the bakery back in Buffalo, six years of effort in making everything run so smoothly, between him and all three sisters. He and Erica had worked well together in the whole regard of running the actual business, and the other two were great at rolling with the punches, filling in in the back when they were needed there more than with customers. Fuck, he misses Erica and her practical, positive nature. He's got a few people here he thinks he can trust, but he won't really know until they get going. It's like trying to put a hockey team together—you can select people who've done impressive shit before, who can throw something good together for a tryout, but you just can't know for sure if it'll all gel until you put them on different lines and toss them out onto the ice to make it happen. 

This sort of shit is why he can't fucking sleep. His mind just keeps going over everything. It's like the nights before championship games in the rec league, only a hundred times worse. He has no idea how the fuck Jonny's managed to survive multiple post-seasons, given the importance of those to his career. Patrick's freaking out more than a little, and he's just a fucking baker and cake decorator who was insane enough to go and open a new bakery in a city that isn't his own. 

He makes a frustrated noise and goes back to the proofs from the printer, like he can even do anything about them at this point.

He doesn't sleep, exactly, but he must at least zone out, because the next thing he realizes, there are voices outside the office, out in the kitchen. They're pitched low, like whoever's out there is actively trying to be quiet, and Patrick struggles to get up and go see what's going on. His front of house staff shouldn't even be here until tomorrow; Panarin's the only one he's got scheduled to come in today at all. His computer says it's just past eight, which means the kid's been working in the kitchen for at least four hours. He hopes it's not a vendor or anything out there. It shouldn't be, but Patrick can't one-hundred-percent trust his memory of all bakery-related scheduled things right this moment, and he needs to go check, just in case it's something that needs his personal attention, or at least the presence of someone a little more fluent in English than Panarin is just yet.

He stops just outside the entrance to his office. Panarin's there all right, working at the far back counter. But the person with him definitely isn't on staff.

It's Jonny.

Patrick just watches for a moment, a little confused—he's pretty sure he hadn't made a date with Jonny, especially not a morning one. Jonny's the one speaking, for the most part, sitting on a stool just to the side of the work table. "So, what next?" Patrick hears him ask. He can't one-hundred–percent vouch for what Panarin's answer is, but it sounds like _mess-eat_ or maybe _meh-seat_. Jonny looks even more confused, but then Panarin lifts the batch of dough out of the mixing bowl, setting it down on the floured countertop, and begins working it. "Oh!" Jonny says, a grin lighting up his face. "'Knead,' right?"

"Yes, knead! _Mesit_ ," Panarin confirms, grinning just as widely. He goes back to working with the dough. "Maybe Kaner teach you. How to work. Or let me teach."

Jonny laughs a little. "He tried to teach me to make lemon curd last week. I don't think I'm great at this stuff. We ended up with lemon scrambled eggs."

Patrick snorts at the memory, remembering Jonny's severely frustrated face at the fuck-up. He knows Jonny's not a total disaster in the kitchen—he's eaten dinner Jonny's made more than once already, and he knows Jonny's place has a fucking garden, with towers and shit, up on the roof, and he likes to cook the stuff he grows. But baking's different, a lot more sensitive to a ton of factors—time, temperature, amount of stirring and mixing done to a product in different stages—and not everyone has a natural sort of instinct and flair for it. It can be taught a lot of the time, and Patrick's not against working with Jonny, if he really does want to learn. But maybe the next lesson will be something that isn't as easily ruined.

Both Panarin and Jonny turn to look his direction at the noise. "Almost done, boss!" Panarin tells him, still grinning. "Tazer keep me company!"

"Good. Make him earn his keep next time. Have him haul some bags of flour or sugar. Can't have him getting soft in the off-season."

Jonny mock-glares at him, and Panarin laughs, saying something to himself in Russian before giving the dough another few good turns and reaching for the roll of plastic wrap. He divides it quickly, wrapping each portion with the ease and speed of someone who's done it hundreds of times, and it's in the reach-in within moments, allowing him to clean up his station completely. "Getting soft, huh?" Jonny mutters as Patrick comes to stand next to him as the kid bustles around. He's wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes, topped off with one of his dozen or so Blackhawks baseball caps, and he smells like soap and shampoo and just a little bit of that minty, medicinal scent Patrick associates with sore muscles and joints and time on a massage table. Patrick would bet money he's come from a workout and rehab session, especially given the hour. 

Patrick smirks. "Nah. You can still do with some fattening up, actually." He scrutinizes Jonny's face. It's still thinner than it was when they met, thinner even than when Jonny had stepped into his bakery in Buffalo and seen that cake he'd inadvertently modeled for, but it's finally losing a bit of that gaunt look it had taken on towards the end of the season, even before the post-season had started and Jonny had started to drop weight at an almost horrifying pace, looking more wasted with each round. "Yeah, you definitely could use a cupcake or two."

Jonny's eyebrows go up, but then he laughs. "You're trying to give the nutritionists and trainers a migraine, aren't you?"

"Hey, I'm not wrecking your diet nearly as much as I could, thanks," Patrick huffs. He's only had Jonny taste-test a couple of gluten-free recipes in the last three months, and he's only given him small tastes of a few other things—custards and creams, mostly, some of them dairy-free as well. Hell, he's even come up with a couple of healthier snacks to sell, including something that's baked _just_ enough to not be considered a raw food: a combination of fruits, nuts, flax, and oats, mixed with a blend of spices that makes it not that far from carrot cake, in flavor, and contains no added sugars. Jonny's got a bag of them in his freezer at the moment, in fact. They're probably the only thing Patrick makes that wouldn't give the team dietitians a facial tic. "It could be a lot worse." Not that he thinks Jonny would really cave and get to that point, even if Patrick tried to prod him. He's earned that Captain Serious label a number of ways, and even Patrick knows better than to fuck with his diet or training regime. He gets it, really. Hockey can be brutal on the body, and Jonny's playing at an insanely competitive, grueling level. He's got to be careful about virtually everything. 

And Patrick is absolutely not going to fuck that up for him.

"I might let you wreck it a little, on Friday," Jonny allows after a moment. "Especially if you have any of those cupcakes, with the dark chocolate glaze that uses the rice milk?"

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'll have those." It's the same thing he'd brought him back in Buffalo, as a means of apology. Apparently Jonny's a sucker for chocolate, and Patrick's gluten-free chocolate cake passes muster. "Artemi's already figured out they're your favorite."

"Always have here," Panarin calls from the dish pit, giving Jonny a thumbs up. "Just for the captain."

Jonny grins that lopsided smile of his. "Man, you've got your staff well-trained."

"Happy captain means good hockey," Panarin tells him, now drying his hands. "Sometimes angry captain, too, but happy better." He looks at Patrick. "All done, boss? Any else?"

Patrick looks at the clock. It's not even nine, but the kid seems to have finished everything on the production list for the day. Anything else that gets done will be something Patrick can handle on his own. "No, you're good. Thanks, man. I mean it. Go home, enjoy the rest of your day, and come back rested for tomorrow." He can't remember the Russian word for 'relax,' so he chooses to only moderately mangle the one for 'thank you' instead, tacking it on at the end. 

Panarin grins at him. "Getting better," he says, heading for the locker area to grab his jacket and leave his uniform. "See you tomorrow."

"Bright and early."

"Goodbye, Captain."

Jonny grins again and gives the kid a fist-bump. "Breadman. Take care of yourself." He and the kid seem to get along pretty well. Patrick had been nervous at first, having Jonny around the bakery here and there, unable to really figure out how to explain his presence to his staff. He'd floated it to Panarin first, trying to get across that there might, from time to time, be a hockey player or two hanging around, friends of his who might stop by, but that no one should worry about them, if they showed up. There had been a flurry of excited Russian, which Patrick had caught virtually none of. He'd thought he'd heard the words _Anisimov_ and _Malkin_ in there, and he was nearly positive he'd caught _Ovechkin_ , and he'd figured they'd probably be okay. It had been a week after Jonny's first appearance that Panarin had approached him, looking very nervous, and asked what Patrick had been worried about in the first place: "You and Captain. Together?" When Patrick hadn't answered right away, trying to find the words that wouldn't be lies, but would also be understood, given the language barrier, Panarin had just given him a little smile and shrug. "Is okay. I not tell."

Patrick had definitely felt relief at that. He had had the talk with Jonny about that, about their status. As far as Jonny was concerned, it wasn't an issue. He might not be planning on currently broadcasting to the world that he had a boyfriend, but he wasn't going to deny it, if it came to light, either. "You're not my dirty little secret, Kaner," he had said, putting Patrick's fear into words. "And I hope I'm not yours."

"Like I wouldn't be happy to shout that I'm banging the hottest, best captain in the NHL from the rooftops," Patrick had laughed, trying to play off that his knees felt wobbly. 

Jonny had rolled his eyes. "Maybe, if you're going to do something like that, give me a heads up. Because I'm pretty sure that'd lead to press conferences and long, boring chats with PR, and about a hundred photo shoots for the two of us, and you should probably do something with your hair if that's going to be the case."

"Whatever, don't bring my hairline into this. You're not exactly short on forehead yourself, Jonny."

Jonny had just laughed at him, then kissed him, and Patrick had tried not to let it show how fucking relieved he'd been over the whole thing. So to have Panarin accept what he had figured out and be so relaxed about it was another major hurdle Patrick felt they'd made it over. Panarin hadn't acted any differently at all around either of them. And though they weren't going to flaunt their still-blooming relationship, Patrick stopped being quite so paranoid. He had other things that needed his worry more than that. Like virtually every single other detail about getting the bakery up and running.

Jonny waits until the door shuts behind Panarin before he turns to Patrick and gives him a long, steady look that makes the back of Patrick's neck itch. "Kaner."

"Jonny."

"Kaner. When's the last time you slept?"

"Um. What length of unconsciousness counts as sleep, in your book?"

Jonny's face is unamused. "Wrong answer, Kaner. Come on. Get your keys. Lock this shit up. Let's go."

"Dude, I can't. I had Panarin flip the ovens on, and I've got to get at least one batch of cookies decorated so they'll be dry in time for the soft open tomorrow, and I should—"

"Kaner." 

Patrick sighs. He had heard himself, that almost frantic note in his voice as he'd started to lay out what still had to be done. He knows Jonny's going to tell him to just leave it all, anyway, that he needs to get some sleep, and everything can hold off for now, since it's really Friday that's important. "What?"

"What do you have to do within the next few hours that I can help with and not fuck up?"

Patrick blinks. "What?"

"Are there. Any projects. I can do. That are easy enough. That you won't have to do it over if I help," Jonny says, deliberately, like Kaner's the one with the language barrier. When Patrick doesn't answer, because he's not sure _how_ to answer, or that he's even heard Jonny correctly, Jonny sighs. "Look. You said something about cookies. Can I help with those? Scoop dough or put it on trays to go into the oven or something? Seriously, if you're going to insist on working, at least let me help."

"Really?"

"I mean, don't make me tackle lemon curd or anything like that again, but yeah. I can do the shit you'd hire some high school kid to do. At least give me _some_ credit." 

Patrick kind of wants to cry, because he's overwhelmed as fuck, and he's been trying to deny it, and Jonny looks so goddamned _earnest_. "You can help with cookies. Grab one of the things of dough Panarin just made out of the reach-in."

"There we go. Now we're talking." He snags an apron from its spot and ties it on, then goes to wash his hands without Patrick even saying a word. He retrieves the dough, sets it down, and then looks back at the rack with a bunch of the kitchen tools on it, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"Rolling pin," Patrick says, gesturing up to the appropriate side of the rack. "I'll get the cookie cutters. And if you really want, I need about five trays, full sheets, with parchment."

"I can do that."

Jonny doesn't know where everything is in here, but he's not dumb and he's apparently been paying attention whenever he has been back here. He gets the trays out and lined before Patrick's even got the dough half-rolled. It's a little warmer than he usually likes it, but not so much that it won't hold its shape when it bakes or will stick to the counter or need too much flour. Jonny just moves the stool he was sitting on earlier to a place down the bench that gives Patrick enough space to work and watches. After a moment, he lets out a small, huffed laugh. "What?"

"Just a random thought."

"What's that?" He's got the dough just thick enough, even all the way to the edges, and he reaches for one of the five cookie cutters he's got on the table, the six-petal flower. 

"Was just wondering that if I sent Sid a cheesecake or something, if he'd consider it a well-intentioned gift, or deliberate sabotage."

"Sidney Crosby?"

"Yeah."

"He likes cheesecake?"

"Understatement. He loves all baked goods. But he's got a weakness for that, in particular. Most guys did celebratory drinks after the Olympics. Sid did celebratory cheesecake. In more than one flavor."

"Huh," Patrick says, grinning. He'd never have guessed desserts to be a weakness of Crosby's. He also wonders if it'll ever not be a little weird to have Jonny talk about guys like that, other pro hockey players who are just regular people, the same way he is. "Maybe wait to find out till I get my product shipping shit figured out, and then make sure you send it to his Pittsburgh place, and not Canada. He'd probably consider a smashed cheesecake a bad omen, and a moldy one even worse, in either case."

"Yeah, probably."

He gets the rest of the cookies cut out, showing Jonny how to pull the scraps of dough away from the intended shapes to re-roll and the proper way to move them onto trays without fucking up the shape along the way. He figures if Jonny's offering, he may as well utilize him. "Icing time," he says as soon as everything's in the oven, reaching up to pull down the bins of food coloring gels. "Unless you mind being multi-colored."

Jonny raises his eyebrows. "I've got an apron, and there are gloves."

"Yeah, we'll just see how long that holds up for someone who's never done this before."

There's a pause, and then Jonny huffs. "You're on."

Patrick grins. Ever the competitor. Still, he's careful in his instructions to Jonny, leading him through how much of the white royal icing Panarin made this morning to scoop into each of the small bowls Patrick sets out, and then dropping food coloring into each, letting Jonny mix a few as they go down the line. Patrick's got six colors done to Jonny's three, and he can't help but smirk a little when Jonny shoots him a look. "Lots of practice," he just says, because that's true. He pours a little more than half of each color into piping bags fitted with couplers, then sets to work sifting more powdered sugar to the remaining icing until it's thick enough to use for outlining and accents. He gets those bagged up, too. "I'll teach you how to fill a piping bag if you want some other time," Patrick says, when Jonny makes a move to help. "But for the sake of speed and neatness, today is not that day." He smacks Jonny's hand away. "If you're good, I'll let you decorate a cookie of your own."

Jonny makes a face, and Patrick laughs.

It's a quicker project than usual, with Jonny passing him trays of cooled cookies, taking one away and putting another in its place as Patrick finishes each step in something like an assembly line. He can't do the accents on most of them until the flood icing dries, but he's got the base of the project done in half the time it would have taken him if Jonny hadn't been around, with all of his help throughout. "There may be hope for you, yet," Patrick muses as Jonny slides the speed rack into place in the corner, where the icing can dry for the next few hours. "You might even have a job in the off-season." He wipes the table down one final time, then pulls the rack of bowls and whisks out of the dishwasher compartment to dry in the designated space next to the machine. 

"Are we done?"

Patrick thinks about everything else he's got left to do today. There are macaroons to be filled and assembled, and chocolates that need to be molded, filled, and finished, but that's stuff that doesn't need to be done right this minute, and just thinking about it all makes him want to cry a little. "For now, I guess."

"Good." Jonny takes off his apron, then tugs Patrick by the sleeve of his chef's coat. "Now lock up. We're headed upstairs, and then you're fucking sleeping."

"You're coming with me?"

"Unless you don't want me to."

Patrick shakes his head so vehemently it makes him dizzy, though that's probably mostly due to the sleep deprivation. "I'm absolutely not saying that. I just mean, well...you've been up there. You know there's mostly just boxes everywhere. I don't even have a lot of furniture or anything yet." His apartment is located right above the bakery, the sort of package deal he'd been looking for when considering locations for his business, but he's been so busy with the bakery itself that his place doesn't look remotely lived in. He's got his kitchen mostly set up, and the TV and Xbox is plugged in, but that's pretty much it.

Jonny shrugs. "But you've got a bed, and that's all that matters right now. Come on, up. Nap now, and if you want, we can head to my place later tonight. Because if you think I'm going to just trust that you'll sleep, left to your own devices, you're even more delusional than I thought." He swats Patrick's ass. "Get moving, Kaner."

"Ah, yeah, there's the Captain Voice," Patrick says, smirking. "That's kinda doing it for me, actually."

Jonny sighs deeply, put upon. "You get one free night where we play Strict Captain and Misbehaving Rookie, Kaner. But now, sleep." He prods Patrick up the stairs and into his own apartment, ignoring Patrick's noises of protest. 

"I'm not even sure I _can_ sleep," Patrick says, once they're upstairs and Jonny is toeing off his own shoes next to the door. "Seriously, man, I've tried. I can't get my head out of the bakery long enough to actually get quality sleep. It's just a non-stop stream of—" he stops talking, only because Jonny's moved in on him and stopped the flood of words with a kiss. It's cliché as hell, and Patrick will give him shit for it later, but damn if it isn't effective. 

Jonny doesn't stop right away, either. He keeps going, sliding his tongue past Patrick's lips, then pulling back just enough to be able to suck on the tip of Patrick's tongue in a way that always goes straight to his dick. He lets out a muffled sort of whine as Jonny does it again at the same time he slides a hand down past the waistband of Patrick's jeans to squeeze the top of his ass, rocking his hips forward so he's pressed closer to Jonny, and Jonny hums back, pleased.

Jonny kisses him breathless, till Patrick's literally panting, arching into Jonny's touch, trying to get as much contact at possible. He's able to get his own hands down the back of Jonny's shorts, digging his fingers into the amazing work of art that is Jonny's ass. He's skinnier than he should be, just barely starting to regain the muscle tone Patrick knows he has at the start of each season, but his ass is still fantastic, his thighs still thick enough to make Patrick want them bracketing his own, keeping him pinned down on the mattress whenever he gets a glimpse of them. He pulls Jonny in closer, lets him feel the bulge in his jeans through the fabric of his own shorts as he presses their dicks in against each other. "Fuck me?" he whispers in Jonny's ear just before nipping at the earlobe, gratified as hell when Jonny shudders, full-body, and mutters "Jesus, Kaner," before nodding and walking them both back to the spot in the corner of one of the rooms where the bed sits.

Jonny strips down, fast as lightning—years of practice getting dressed and undressed in a hurry, not putting much thought into the actual process because his mind's on other matters—then reaches for Patrick. He takes more time there, removing Patrick's chef's coat, then T-shirt, then his jeans, and finally everything else. The bruises from the post-season have faded, but the scars remain, both dark and faded lines and spots scattered across Jonny's legs, arms, and torso. Patrick traces one that's almost invisible with his thumb, a small curved line just at the crest of his hipbone, and then pulls Jonny down onto the bed with him, a tangle of limbs amongst the wrinkled sheets. 

Jonny works him open for a while, already familiar with things like where Patrick keeps the lube and condoms in his bedroom so he doesn't even have to ask or hunt around. They've been good in bed together from the start, that first night of mind-blowing sex in the hotel room only a couple of miles from where they are right now, but they've been getting even better now that they can read each other better, are really making an effort. Jonny's already figured out some of Patrick's favorite spots, combinations of touches and bites and strokes that hit him the hardest, and Patrick's learned which places on Jonny's body seem to want the most attention, which sorts of things are most likely to make his breath hitch, which things sometimes make him mutter curses. 

Maybe it's because he's an athlete, or maybe it's just Jonny, but Patrick's still amazed when Jonny is able to lean down on his forearms, close enough for their foreheads to touch, even as he's got himself sunk deep within Patrick, keeping up a steady, rocking rhythm with Patrick's legs locked around his back. The few inches of height difference work for them this way, Patrick able to look Jonny in the eyes as Jonny fucks into him, breathing hard and looking at Patrick as if he's something amazing and not just plain old Patrick Kane. 

Patrick reaches up with one hand and swipes his thumb gently over the scar on Jonny's upper lip, the imperfection he finds so enticing and endearing, that somehow augments the beauty of Jonny's face, especially when he smiles. Jonny turns his head, nipping at the tip of the thumb and grinning before knocking it aside with his nose and pressing in to kiss Patrick, quick and a bit messy. "Can you reach the lube?" Jonny asks, gesturing with his chin in the vague direction of where Patrick had last seen the bottle amongst the sheets. "Because I'd really like to see you come, with you doing what you like."

What Patrick likes is basically anything at all with Jonny involved, but he knows what Jonny means. "Yeah," he says, nodding, and he's got his own hand slicked up within just a moment, a little shuddering breath escaping as he takes himself into hand and starts stroking slowly. 

"That's what I like to hear," Jonny murmurs, and he slows his own movements a little, lifting his upper body a bit more and readjusting the angle of his thrusts. He manages to graze Patrick's prostate after another moment, sending tingling sparks of heat shooting throughout his body and making him swear. "And that's even better."

"You do that again, and I'm gonna be done," Patrick says, and then Jonny promptly proves him wrong by doing it again. He gasps, back arching, but he doesn't come. But he's close, so close. "Fuck, shit." He hears Jonny huff, a smug tinge to the noise, and then Jonny just barely brushes that spot inside him again, two-three-four times, and then that's it, lights out, Patrick can't hold out anymore, his hand giving his dick a final hard stroke before he comes all over both himself and Jonny. Jonny swears softly in French, hips jerking erratically before he tenses all over and groans, at least managing to roll himself over so he's collapsed next to Patrick instead of on top of him.

Through the haze of endorphins and blood rushing past his ears, Patrick hears Jonny get up a few moments later, then feels a warm, wet cloth against his stomach. He opens his eyes halfway to see Jonny clean himself up after he's done with Patrick before dropping beside him. He hears a muttered "dammit" and tries to open his eyes more. "What's wrong?" Even he can hear the slur in his words.

"Nothing," Jonny says, and his voice is halfway to wrecked. "Just. Food coloring."

Patrick huffs an exhausted laugh. He'd seen it along Jonny's left forearm back in the bakery, but hadn't said anything. He figured Jonny would notice soon enough. "Told you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Shut up, Kaner." Jonny's body settles up against his, a warm, welcome weight along his side. 

Patrick doesn't think he can do anything else, anyway. He's been exhausted for days, and now he's so thoroughly relaxed he's not one-hundred-percent sure he still has bones and isn't a mass of jello. The buzzing that's been constant in his head is gone, not even a lazy, droning hum anymore. He realizes, as he can feel himself falling further down towards sleep, that that was probably Jonny's plan all along.

Despite his apparent worry he's not that great at this whole boyfriend thing, Jonny's the fucking best.

"You know who I should send something to?" Jonny mumbles a moment later, as Patrick's trying to decide if it's worth it to reach for the blankets to combat the air conditioning. "Sharpy."

"Mm?"

"I suppose I can be the bigger person and send something to say thank you, for all this."

"True captain, right there," Patrick murmurs, squirming closer to Jonny and his body heat. 

Jonny shifts, tucking an arm behind Patrick and pulling him even closer before dragging the covers over them both. "It's just too bad you don't make stuff like you did back in Buffalo." He pokes Patrick, who's suddenly laughing into his side. "What?"

Patrick lifts his head, actually managing to open his eyes and lock them with Jonny's. "There's a box in my office. Something Erica packed for me. Let's sleep for a while, and then you can come back down to the bakery with me and help me with one more project."

"The chocolates or whatever?"

Patrick snorts. "No. We might need to send Panarin on a little errand tomorrow, but I've got an idea." He's going to have to let Erica know the box of some of his old things wasn't a bad idea. "Dick cookies."

Jonny just stares at him for a moment, then breaks into a wide smile. "I fucking love you," he says, and Patrick's glad he's awake for this, the first time Jonny's said the words.

"I love you, too," Patrick says, before Jonny can replay what he's said and panic or take it back. Jonny blinks at him slowly, dazedly, finally realizing what's just happened, and then cups Patrick's cheek in hand and kisses him deeply, gentle and unhurried, flooding Patrick with a soft, sweet warmth over everything else. "Now let's sleep."

"And then dick cookies," Jonny says, grinning, settling back down beside Patrick and draping an arm around him in a way that feels grounding and comfortable.

"Then dick cookies," Patrick murmurs back, nosing at Jonny's bare shoulder as sleep stops playing coy and drags him under, wrapped in the warmth of Jonny's arms.

* * *

**  
**  
Epilogue: Buffalo; next January  


 

The game's been over for a while and even the post-game analysis is wrapping up when Patrick realizes he's being stared at. He looks up from the television to meet Gally's eyes. "What?" A quick glance past his old captain shows him both Gally's brother Brant and AJ—one of Patrick's high school friends—are giving him the same look. "Really, bro?" Gally says, rolling his eyes. "Didn't think you'd move to Chicago and go native."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You've been gone for what, eight, nine months? Most of that was during the off-season, even. But you've been yelling at the TV all night like you're rooting against the Sabres. What the fuck, man. I thought I knew you."

Patrick rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his beer. "I'm still a Sabres fan." Yeah, maybe he's a little vocal when the Hawks play, but he can't fucking help it. His sisters and parents abandoned them all in the first, apparently tired of all of Patrick's shouted enthusiasm, or at least his volume level. They're around someplace—probably upstairs, where Patrick can dimly hear music playing, or in the kitchen—but they've left Patrick and his friends the run of the living room.

"Sure," Brant and Gally say in unison. "If you say so," Brant adds.

"Fuck you guys, it was a close game. And a guy can like more than one team, or players from opposing teams."

"Wrong. So very wrong," AJ sighs, like Patrick's the most clueless person he's ever met. "You're loyal to your club for _life_ , dude. Blue, white, silver and gold forever. None of this red and black bullshit."

"Whatever," Patrick mutters He shouldn't be surprised. He'd gone with AJ on his eighteenth birthday while he got the Sabres logo tattooed on his back. On the TV screen, he sees one of the goals from earlier, Jonny shooting five-hole after an assist from Sharpy, and he yells, "Fuck yeah, Jonny, that's how you do it!" without even really thinking about it.

"Jesus Christ, dude," Gally groans. "Just bang Toews already."

"...Funny story," Patrick mutters into his beer bottle before realizing it's empty and getting up to get another one from the fridge before he says something like that again, only louder.

"Sorry, I know I'm late," Jonny says in a breathless rush as he strides into the living room. Patrick's startled at his sudden appearance, going still. He knew Jonny said he'd try to stop by after the game and give the family a brief hello, but he hadn't heard the door over the music and the TV, and Patrick's phone's been silent since before the game began. "Media ran long," He leans in, giving Patrick a kiss like he really is sorry for being late and is trying to make up for the missed time together.

There's a cough from the direction of the couch behind Jonny, and Jonny freezes, his face still close to Patrick's and hands on Patrick's hips.

Patrick's honestly just as stunned, sort of paralyzed next to his dad's armchair, and of absolutely no help. 

Oh shit.

Jonny lets go of Patrick and turns, very slowly. "Uh," he says, clearly struggling at how to act in this unexpected situation, faced with three of Patrick's friends, who are all gaping at what they've just seen. Brant's mouth is hanging open so wide it looks like he might deep-throat his beer bottle. "...Hi?"

Gally's the first to recover. "Um," he says, eyebrows knit together as he looks between Jonny and Patrick before settling on Jonny. "D'you maybe want to pass around some of those non-disclosure things now, or...?"

Patrick's heart is hammering in his throat, now working double-time after nearly fucking stopping altogether for a few moments. This was not exactly how he had thought Jonny might meet his friends. Of all the things Patrick thought Jonny coming out might look like, this was not one of them. But how the fuck are they supposed to recover? Does Jonny actually have NDAs somewhere? He doesn't think his friends are going to run right out to chat to Deadspin or ESPN or anything, because they're not dicks, but maybe Gally's right, and that's safer for everyone.

Patrick can see the consideration going on behind Jonny's eyes, his face a little pinched. And then he shrugs, and all the tension that's visible to Patrick's eye disappears. "Ah, fuck it," he huffs, grinning at Patrick in a way that lets him start breathing like a normal person again. He kisses Patrick again, just a quick, reassuring thing, before turning back to Patrick's friends and holding his hand out to Gally, who's the closest. "Hey. I'm Jonny. You guys are friends of Kaner's?"

Brant makes a choked-sounding noise as his brother shakes Jonny's hand, still looking kind of shocked. "Gally."

"Oh, hey, you were captain of Kaner's team, right? I caught one of your games last season."

Gally clearly doesn't expect that. "Uh. Yeah. Thanks?" He looks around at the others and seems to realize they're still processing whatever the hell is going on and Patrick's still trying to get over his own shock, unable to do much besides watch whatever's playing out. "That's AJ," he says, Captain Mode kicking in as Jonny reaches out for that handshake. "And my brother, Brant."

"Nice to meet you," Jonny says, and Patrick knows that voice. It's his 'keep your composure for the media, because you're the captain' voice, the one that's flat and somehow still a little strained.

"So, uh, yeah. I meant to tell you guys," Patrick says, because Jonny should not have to face this alone. "I've kind of been seeing someone." He snags Jonny's left hand and gives it a squeeze. He'd been wrong, before. There was still some tension left, because he feels it drain away a little more as Jonny laces their fingers together.

"So, uh, hey, Kaner," Gally says after another moment. "That thing I said a minute ago, about you, and Toews...? Uh. Forget I said anything?"

Patrick laughs, and that seems to break everyone else out of it. "Yeah, I've actually got that handled already." At Jonny's confused expression, he smirks. "Tell you later," he says out of the corner of his mouth.

"I need another goddamned beer," Brant says finally, standing up. "Want one, To—Jonny?"

Jonny shakes his head, but grins a lot more naturally. "Nah. Thanks, though." He looks at Patrick once Brent's out of the room, headed for the kitchen. "So. You might want to get a haircut and buy a nice outfit. Because I think I'm gonna email PR tonight about a You Can Play video or something." He raises his eyebrows. "If you're okay with it, I mean."

Patrick stares at Jonny for a moment: at his big dumb forehead, still showing that red line where his helmet rubs; at the quirk of his mouth that shows the curved line past the corner of his mouth on his left cheek and both the old scar across his right upper lip and the new, still-healing one just below it; at his eyes, deep, warm brown and questioning. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." He raises up on his toes a little, kisses Jonny solidly so he knows Patrick's in this with him, completely on his side.

"Aw, fuck," AJ says from somewhere off to the side of the room, and Patrick and Jonny both flinch just a little.

"What?" Patrick asks, cautiously. Maybe he and Jonny should mellow out with the visible displays of affection.

"Does this mean I have to start cheering for the goddamn _Blackhawks_?" AJ asks, sounding the most dismayed and annoyed Patrick's heard him in years. Next to him, Gally facepalms.

Jonny laughs, a real, true laugh, straight from the gut. "I won't hold it against you if you don't."

Patrick headbutts Jonny's chest, hiding a smirk against the warm fabric of his hoodie as Brant comes back with a full six-pack and a bottle opener. He's dating such a fucking _loser_. But things will be okay, Patrick knows it, even if it's a little rough at first.

They've got each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thanks to those who let me ramble at them about this fic idea over the last year and a half, not complaining when they woke up to random texts of utter dick-cake-related crack or the recent texts of smutty excerpts. Special thanks to the person who insisted there was still an audience for this pairing and urged me to write and then post it—even if it was nearly a year later than I'd originally intended to do so—and didn't let it die when this section of fandom imploded. And finally, thank you, very sincerely, to all those who have read, left kudos, commented, and shared on twitter, tumblr, or anywhere else, proving that person right.


End file.
